


Olive Branches

by Lee_Mix



Series: lost and found families [1]
Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: F/M, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 16:58:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5256377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lee_Mix/pseuds/Lee_Mix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As she cradles the life inside of her, Sabine ponders about the life that awaits her child.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Olive Branches

Tucked away in the cobbled backstreets of Paris, brushed away from the postcard portraits of the inner city, the skies are more vast and blue, the grass higher and crawling up the stone like ivy, and a small bakery begins it’s small life as a way to fill the air away from the clouded dust of industrial oil.

You sit by the window, your knitting needles perched on her lap and glinting the midday sun, and breath in the fresh air for two. Your hand covers your protruding belly, warm and palpable, and you cannot help but worry for the little heartbeat that keeps you both alive.

Somewhere in the distance, perhaps a thousand miles away, you see a small feather from a small bird slowly falls down into a small bowl of water, a dent in the earth’s surface, perfectly perched and rippling. One day all feathers must fall, must learn to land into a place that will appreciate their beauty and their wonder, and not be left trodden in the dirt.

A little girl skips by, picks up the feather, brushes off the water, and sticks it in her newsboy cap. 

You smile that small smile, something that made your husband’s heart skip a beat, and you skip a life of tradition and culture to start anew. You are no sheep in a field of wolves, but the city of Paris is so  _foreign,_ even the mother tongue leaves  _you_ tongue-tied when you come from a place of accented syllables and twisted pronunciations. 

But he is here, so you want to be. You do love this city, in a sense. But you worry about the little one that has taken refuge in your own body. Once upon a time, in a cold winter or a hazy summer, your body was too thin and stubby to be considered a shield, much less a shelter, but there are in there, all the same, breathing the same air, nurturing the same warmth. 

 _Will this little one breath the fresh air?_ You think, and the images begin to swirl in the eyes of your mind. 

_Will they skip over cobblestones and cut their knees or their elbows? Will they cry, or look up at the sun and grin cheekily? Will they kick their feet in the water and dance, or will they prefer the warm carpet under their feet? Will they love the bread their father bakes, or prefer my dumplings?_

Questions, you suppose, are normal for a new mother (though you are certain your husband is doing it too). Perhaps you are being born into the role as your child grows into their new shoes of life, walking with stumbling steps as you guide on rocky stepping stones. 

You blink out of your thoughts when a small ladybug lands on your nose, but you do not flinch. To flinch away from a ladybug is ill-advised, and you are certain she is here to bless you.

“Hello there,” you say, smiling and lifting your finger. “Thank-you for the visit, but I think you should bless this little one with your magical luck instead. Everyone thinks they will not be, but I think they will be the luckiest little one in the entire  _world._ ”

For a moment, that little red-dotted creature seems to stare at your protruding belly, before it’s tiny wings flicker, and like a candlelight disappears into the sun. The finger that held the little ladybug touches your belly with your child, rubbing the magic all over her heart and mind as your hands do little more than cradle the little one to sleep. 

You are no ladybug, but you are a little bird that flew the nest to give birth to a new life in this city. Be it your own or your little child.

 _“Bù yào wèn wǒ cóng nǎ lǐ lái~.”_ your mother-tongue fills the sweet air around you as your curl up around your child, embracing them as close to your heart as possible. 

(Though as soon as they are born, a piece will always be with them.)

 _“Wǒ dí gù xiāng zài yuǎn fāng~,”_ the words get muddled in your head with the French tongue that has become your sister mind, but the meaning remains long enough for your throat to close and your eyes to sting.  _“Wèi shén me liú làng~.”_

(But your child is listening, so tell them the truth without fear of tears.)

 _“Liú làng yuǎn fāng liú làng~,”_  your voice remains strong despite the waverings and cracks on the surface, and you complete your song with the next part. “ _Wèi le mèng zhōng dí gǎn lǎn shù~.”_

“Singing again, honey?”

His warm arms surround your tiny body, but you feel no less empowered as when you were protecting your little one with your own embrace. But you would  _never_ refuse his additional warmth. 

“They like it.” 

A small laugh vibrates through his chest and makes both your hearts skip a beat. “The kid has good taste, then. No pop idol will  _compare_ to their mother’s beautiful voice.”

“You flatter me much too much.” You hold his wedding band hand with your own and close your eyes. “I saw a ladybug today. It landed on my nose.”

“Yeah?” He sighs, and you feel his chin in your hair. 

“There is an old tale in my land.” He hums to say he’s listening, and you carry on. “They say ladybugs are a blessing for a close family.”

“Oh?” Your husband smiles wider and holds you even closer. “Not that we needed a blessing, but looks like even  _nature_ agrees we’re a match made in whatever heaven there is. Right?”

That boundless optimism makes you smile every time. “I suppose you are.”

Yes, as young as you and your little child may be, you have no doubt that the one thing they will never lack, is love. The future in this city is an uncertain one, and even drifting feathers and ladybugs and all the olive branches woven into baskets and doors will not keep you from worrying.

But then again, you  _are_ a mother.

It's only natural.

**Author's Note:**

> I love writing pregnancies, and I love writing heart-warming thoughts. Thus, this was born. Marinette, however, is not born yet in this story’s timeline, thus her Mama is the main character in this. Also, the lyrics that she sings to Marinette are from a song called, and I’ll link in the name, Olive Tree - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HrjQmZ8t8nQ. Something about the lyrics struck a chord with me, and whilst I’m not sure if they’re in Cantonese or Mandarin (though I’m certain it’s the latter), the melody is hauntingly beautiful. Considering Sabine is of Chinese origin, I thought it appropriate.


End file.
